


vibrare

by Stareyedwolf



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, More tags to be added, Reveal Fic, flying by the seat of my pants here, post-Season 1, pre-Deckerstar - Freeform, starts during the end of the last ep of season 1 and goes buckwild, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stareyedwolf/pseuds/Stareyedwolf
Summary: As God moves through the Silver City for the first time in millennia, Lucifer prays for the lives of a few small mortals. And Michael descends to right old wrongs, whether it is welcome or not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this story is just one big excuse for me to yell about lucifers many slights, and wax poetic about pretty celestials. none of it is planned, so ive no idea where its going. please bear with me.

Like a bolt from the Heavens, an angel descended to stand between Lucifer and Malcolm. Time locked, frozen to a halt without care. Amenadiel's manipulation of time was easy, gentle. It slowed and coasted to a stop and waited for permission to continue. A car at a red light. But _this--_ this was a car going terminal velocity and hitting a solid chunk of iron miles thick. This was the immovable object, the rock that breaks the ocean waves. 

This was Michael.

Even from where Lucifer was laying on the floor, he could tell without looking that it was him. And he was _here_. In this dirty warehouse, on mortal soil. Chloe and Beatrice were hiding out of sight, though he knew intimately where they were, as intimately as he knew that Michael was in front of Malcolm. And the space the Detective and her child occupied seemed to bulge and creak obtrusively with Michael was so close. _Here, in front of Lucifer._

Closer he moved, until he was leaning over Lucifer's bleeding and broken body. Inspecting him clinically, coldly. He looked the same as all those eons ago, though why wouldn't he? Blue eyes burning in a color all their own. Hair like gold silk, swept back from flight. He was unchanging, unfeeling. He still wore his unique, customary white and silver armor, elegance incarnate. The sloping, organic curves of it did not speak of God's hand in its design, but shouted. Screamed it into Lucifer's eyes and any who would ever behold it. It went perfectly with his stark, almost marble skin. As perfectly as anything Created in such a direct fashion. White as snow with gleaming celestial plate, he looked like a living statue. A magnus opus that suddenly stepped off its dais once the final touches were chiseled into place. 

Everything about him was light, but only on the surface. His wings revealed his true nature.

Black. A darkness so deep that his feathers could not be determined, even with angelic sight. Those wings were a door to oblivion, a threshold that was ever open but could never be crossed. A void, one that would consume everything, should he ever release it.

The Demiurgos for which he was named.

_"Lucifer."_

Lucifer swallowed, trying to clear his throat of blood without much success. Being vulnerable was such a _chore_. How did the humans do it? Just go about their lives knowing they could so easily be snuffed out. He'd been injured before, but this mortality and level of pain was something not felt by angels. The Fall and the burning he had endured from it had hurt, truly, but it was a different kind of pain. His soul had burned, had been set on fire, and that burn had manifested over his skin. In truth, no mundane, physical fire could ever touch him. Burning was simply not a thing he was capable of doing unless it was in a spiritual manner.

But being shot? His body itself had been harmed, not his soul. For the first time, his body was not simply a vessel through which to conduct miracles or torments. It was not only a tool to conduct great works. It was _everything_ that he was, and it had been pierced. Before, pain in such a way was a novelty. Being slapped by Chloe, or slicing his palm-- even being grazed in the leg.

But in the face if this very real physical pain--in the face of feeling his body begin to shudder and creak under the stress of being run through by a pathetic little bullet fired by a pathetic little man and his _pathetic little gun--_

The novelty had abruptly run out, and a fear had crawled up his throat at the prospect of dying in such a base and disgusting manner. Blood choking him, organs pulped, fluids leaking out all over the dirty floor. Ruining his suit, ruining his body-- and now Michael was here and that fear had been exponentially compounded.

Why? Why was his brother here? To finish the job? To make sure he was cast back to Hell when his soul left the mortal plane and inevitably rubber-banded his body with it? What was the point? The Silver City was barred to him, why come down to make sure he went where he was sure to go? Foolish, it was all so foolish, why did Father continue to _toy_ with him, surely there were better things for him to do--

_"Lucifer. Look at me."_ Michael's voice broke through.

And wasn't that a stupid statement to make? He hadn't _stopped_ looking at him, the bloody, white arsehole. It was hard to look _away_ from him considering how absolutely dreadful he was to behold, both in terms of his actual physical form and in terms of the power practically wafting off the prick. As someone with eyes that were immune to light of all kinds, and could see in colors and sounds and tastes and smells, it surely must've said something dire about Michael that he was still pale enough to almost give Lucifer snow-blindness.

Michael abruptly said, _"Yes, good. Focus on me. I shall heal you, truly. Have no fear, you will soon be unblemished."_

If Lucifer wasn't already choking, he certainly would have been in response to _that_ proclamation. The nerve! Talking to him like a bloody mortal, easily spooked and impressed in turn by pretentious angel-speak. Though Michael _had_ always sort of sounded like that, hadn't he? Before mortals were even a twinkle in the old man's eye. Strange, the things you forget in millennia of no contact.

Michael's hand lifted, fingers slowly clenching into a loose fist, one finger slowly coming down in a smooth, gentle motion that was incredibly ominous to behold. Somehow, Lucifer had the distinct notion that this wasn't going to be pleasant--

An involuntary screech tore out of his lungs, sending the blood that had been clogging his throat directly across Michael's face and chest. If he wasn't in the middle of convulsing from burning agony, he would have been absolutely laughing his arse off at the sight of Michael, eyes closed and brow furrowed in disgust. That slight expression was downright _comical_ on cold, emotionless Michael. The bright red of it made for a good contrast to all the white and silver.

But wait, why did this hurt so badly? Did healing _also_ hurt humans? Surely not... Surely, their design wasn't so poor. What? Wait, what--

"STOP, BROTH--!!" Another scream of pain let loose, cutting off and mangling his words. He could feel it now, could feel his back burning. Could feel his soul growing and bloating, filling up with power. Power that he had lost, intentionally thrown away. Sliced from his soul and set fire to on the LA beach.

Abruptly, he could hear them, could hear the Host crying out in song, both happy and angry and every other emotion. Exultation he had not heard since the Fall, what was happening? Had something happened? Had someone else Fallen? A new brother born or beaten? What? What?

His mind and heart were suddenly being bombarded by the moods of the Host, buffeted as if with great wings of black. And as the black took him and Lucifer lost consciousness in the tumult of being restored, white erupted from his back as new wings slotted back into an old place.

Black armor, created from the space between the stars, closed softly over Lucifer like dark flower petals, eager to hide his form. It was angular where Michael's was smooth. Smooth where his was sharp. A compliment and a rebuke in one, different in all ways and yet a twin to his own. Two sides of one coin, entwined for all time and yet diametrically opposed.

Pricks of light shone through it, and Michael knew they were the stars. Colors of the myriad galaxies that Lucifer had woven from bland, gray yarn into a moving, infinitely large and colorful tapestry. The night sky raced across the celestial armor, his domain itself seeking to shield him from all harm.

Darkness and color and stars, beautiful and expressive. Offset by wings so white and so pure that Michael felt ghastly just from the sight of them. He felt diminished and ugly in comparison, like a cheap forgery to a great work of art. Like old, yellowed wallpaper peeling and melting from the walls set in a tiny, condemned house. And across the way was a castle, stretching into the heavens, softer than clouds and harder than diamond, made of pearl and marble, and art, and _love._

He felt like a failure. Like an angel fallen to ruin. Like he was a mistake. And he knew that Lucifer did not lie, knew that he _could_ not lie. He could not inspire them in any way, especially to other angels. And so he knew the feelings inspired by Lucifer's restored form--his armor and his wings, and his perfect, unblemished face... They were truths. And Michael took a moment to know himself for what he was. 

A song cried out, the Host moving over to the side of the Silver City, looking down at the Earth and wondering at his actions. He could hear Father racing through the corridors of the City, His great hands touching every stone, every light, every soul. Sweeping them up from the edges of the City in His great arms, clutching them to his breast as he moved forward to collect ever more of their family. Could hear His love and His hate and His joy and His sadness as He lingered within the core of each of their souls for a moment after yanking them all up.

Could hear the heavens move and the planetary bodies tremble.

Could hear everything changing.

Could hear Lucifer breathing softly, restored.

Could hear the bells tolling, tolling for Michael.

"Soon, brother. Soon, all will be made right."

Michael bent down, and contemplated his choices, both past and future. Then, with a crook of a finger and a twitch of his wings, Lucifer faded under a glamour until he looked the same as he did before he was restored. Mortal. Weak. _Dimmed_.

Lucifer stirred, and with a massive buffet of air, Michael was gone. And time resumed as if it had never stopped.


	2. Chapter 2

When Lucifer awoke, he could feel time moving again. He could hear the panting, panicked breathing of Chloe and Trixie, and smell the fear in their sweat. The Host's exultation was rising into a confused cacophony of thousands of dissonant, clashing wails. Wincing, he brushed his awareness of it away so he could think.

Blessed silence let him briefly take stock of himself. So far, he was juiced up beyond belief, celestial power crackling through his body just slightly below the surface. He seemed to be under a paper-thin glamour that had Michael's distinct flavor. It was adequate for the moment if only barely.

The armor of his domain had _also_ been restored, apparently. The unmistakeable feeling of love pressed down in on his body, the stars themselves caressing his skin, whispering their simple secrets. Each and every one of them in their varied ages were kissing him, sharing the the raw power of millions of billions of supernovae ready to fire at his command. He brushed them away as well, if a little bit gentler than the damned piercing caterwauls of the Host.

A bitter anger was boiling inside of him at being under Dad's thumb once again, but there was nothing he could do except swallow it down. He had freely prayed for Chloe's protection in exchange for his willing service, and that prayer had seemingly been answered. But what was he to do? What tasks were given to him?

The sequence of events was strange. Get shot, pray to Dad, Michael comes down and heals him, gives back _all_ of the vast power he had commanded back in the Silver City, and then...? Nothing. No tasks. No commands. Just popping in, a recharge with a shiny new set of wings, then _poof!_ Gone in a puff of celestial smoke.

The quiet clack of shoes met his ears, breaking his train of thought. There was nothing to be done for it at the moment. If he wasn't told where to go, then he was damn well just going to continue on doing whatever he wanted.

First things first, _Malcolm_.

He had been a pest for far too long. A soul escaping hell? Well done. But he had murdered and tortured others in Lucifer's name, accosted him in his own home, stolen the Detective's child, and was now presumably planning to kill them. Plus, he had shot Lucifer and it bloody well _hurt_. If it hadn't been for him, Lucifer wouldn't be in this mess with Michael and Dad, and everything would still be swinging in his favor!

Time for a little comeuppance.

He zeroed in on the noise. Malcolm, stalking through the airport without a care, and quieter-- _Chloe._ Fear was still permeating the air, and he could hear the Spawn breathing wetly, most likely crying quietly in the dark, desperately trying to hide and being terrible at it, as children were at most things.

Lucifer stood up, moving in absolute silence. The imperceptable sound and feel of an amused breath, with air passing by as Malcolm raised his arm...

Time did not slow, but Lucifer moved so quickly that it didn't really matter in the end. In less than a human eye blink, Lucifer was in front of Malcolm and contemplating his choices. While he would have preferred to take the man out with a straight punch to the nose, he didn't trust himself not to explode Malcolm's head on contact with his newfound strength. Or was it old-found strength? Ah, well.

Quick as a bullet, he snapped his foot out to kick in the side of Malcolm's knee. He could feel each muscle, each tendon and ligament, the papier-mâché of human bones--every delicate part of the joint crunching together and blowing apart to hang useless. The man didn't have time to scream, or even pale at the pain of it. Before he had fallen down all the way, two shots rang out.

Chloe had been skulking towards her weapon when she had felt the hair on the back of her neck raise up. Instinct alone was enough to send her leaping forward to swipe her gun off the floor. Rolling up into a stance, she had nothing more than a split-second calculation before firing to notice Lucifer in front of Malcolm. She didn't have time to register anything other the two's positions, and a horrible wet snap.

The man had suddenly slipped down a little, just enough to throw off her aim. What should have been a double-tap in center-mass, had instead hit him once just above his right eye, with the other shot going wide and missing entirely. He crumpled to the ground, Lucifer casually stepping back so that the body didn't touch him as it hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and brain matter.

Chloe dry-heaved, gagging for a moment before she got ahold of herself.

Trixie's voice called out for her softly, blessedly allowing Chloe something else to focus besides the sight of Malcolm crumpled all over the floor.

"Baby, stay there! I'm coming." She ran over to their hiding place, gathering Trixie into her arms. They were both shaking from the adrenaline of the day. She was sure that they were both going to need some therapy after this ordeal. It was all of her worst fears come true, and nothing a child should ever have to deal with.

"Baby. Let's go to Disneyland. What do you say? You, me, and Dad."

Trixie shook her head, not moving from where it was buried in Chloe's chest. It took a moment before she spoke. But when she did, it was choked with tears. "I just-- wanna go home."

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut, desperately swallowing the lump in her throat. She could weep later. For now, there were things to do. "Okay, monkey. We'll go home and watch some movies. Eat some cake, okay?"

She leaned back enough to get a good grip under Trixie's armpits, and heaved her up. She was way too big to be carrying around now, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

" 'ucifer?" Trixie mumbled against her neck.

Chloe's blood iced over. Hadn't he been shot? There had been a moment when she had been sure she'd seen his body hit the ground-- had been _sure_ Malcolm had killed him.

"Lucifer?" She called out, voice shrill and cracking.

"Yes, yes! Coming!" Lucifer called back from where Malcolm had fallen. He sounded fine. Shoes clacking against the floor, he sauntered over to her with the same walk, the same _what's it to me?_ attitude that had infuriated her from the beginning. Uninjured. Not a drop of blood to be seen. 

"You... But I could have sworn... Didn't you die?" Her eyes were tracing all over, but there was no injury. There wasn't even a hole in his shirt.

Lucifer felt a _zing_ run down all of his feathers in succession at the look on her face, electric and uncomfortable. Shifting on his feet, he rolled his shoulders a little. He felt strangely uncomfortable at her look of worry, the white-faced sickly pallor to her. The distinct fear pheromone coming off where she had undoubtedly sweated through her deodorant.

"Oh, I did. I got better." The bitterness welled up, but he pushed it back down. His decision. His _choice._ He looked to the Child, clutching desperately and silently to the Detective. He had to repress a sigh. At least they had both lived. He couldn't very well regret his choice to bargain himself away considering _that._ And Malcolm had died, even if it was unfortunately quick.

Chloe swallowed the questions, the absolute _nonsense_ of that answer, for later. Lucifer did improbable things all the time. Occasionally, he seemed to do _impossible_ things as well, but she had always found a way to rationalize them back into merely improbable. It was impossible for him to be actually impossible. There had to be an explanation.

There was time for that later. For now, he was alive and he was unharmed, and so was Trixie. Malcolm was dead, and they needed to call this in and get everything sorted out so that she and her daughter could go home, eat cake, and sleeplessly hug on the couch until morning.

Chloe shook her head, then moved to find a place to rest her feet while she dialed into dispatch.

They had made it. Everything else would come with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah babey,,


	3. Chapter 3

Amenadiel paced in the office of Dr. Canaan. Back and forth, back and forth. He had sat stiffly, listening to the Host fall into a rapture not heard for millennia. Had he succeeded? Had they called out in joy to watch Lucifer fall? Was he once more cast into Hell, as he had been the first time and every time after? Always, Amenadiel had felt nothing for his wayward brother, if they could still be called brothers after all these eons of estrangement. But spending more time with him during his so-called "retirement..." They had laughed. He had actually enjoyed some of the time spent together.

But then, the Host had erupted into confusion, and one by one, their voices choked off into a cry and were silenced.

Now, there was nothing to hear. Silence. Silence from the entirety of Heaven. The Silver City emitted no songs. Such a thing had not happened since the original Sin. Even then, after the brief moment of speechless disbelief, there had been an uproar. Screaming, weeping, horrified murmuring. There had been sound, there had been _something_. It was not beautiful, but it was at least _there_.

Now? Nothing. Stone silence. It left a dread creeping up Amenadiel's spine. His feathers shook where they were hidden. He felt deeply exposed, but couldn't figure out why. In the silence, he felt sick with anxiety. Something Great was occurring in his home and he could not see it. He had a duty, he had to see it through. Lucifer had to be killed and then reborn in Hell. He could not fly back to the comfort of his home until he knew for sure that it had happened and his work was complete.

And so he paced. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Abruptly, the feeling of a sword pressed to the back of his neck had him spinning in place.

_Michael._

Amenadiel swallowed. This was... It was unprecedented! Michael was here, he was standing in front of him! This must have been what the adulation had been about.

"Brother!" Amenadiel briskly walked up to him, overcome with the need to touch him in some way. A smile was taking up his entire face, he just knew it. But he couldn't be self-conscious, this was _Michael!_ It had been so long, _too_ long.

"It has been ages! What are you doing down here?" A thought occurred to him. "Did Father send you? Did he speak, did you _hear_ him?"

Amenadiel couldn't stop himself from reaching out a hand. He only wanted to press it to the front of Michael's armor, that was all. It was a little imprudent, a touch unannounced, but surely he could be forgiven. Surely, he could--

Stepping back a single step, Michael calmly and silently made his feelings on the attempt known.

Amenadiel snapped his hand away, embarrassed. "Apologies, brother. But it has been so long since I have seen you. Were you on a mission for Father?"

Michael said nothing for a moment, merely turning his head to look out the window. "Yes... It _has_ been a long time, hasn't it..."

Amenadiel glanced to the window for a moment, confused on what could holding Michael's attention. It was just LA, looking like any other human city on the planet. "Brother?"

Michael's attention drew back, slow and easy. "The Host is to be judged."

His blood turned to ice, the facsimile of his human heart no longer beating. " _...What?_ "

"The Host is to be judged." Michael repeated, no change to his expression or inflection.

The words seemed to make even less sense the second time. Michael seemed to understand his confusion, and took pity. Or maybe he was just now getting around to continuing his explanation. It was hard to tell with him.

"Every angel of every kind is to be judged on account of their actions and inactions taken up against their brother."

Amenadiel shook his head, stuttering as he tried to form a question.

"Samael, also called Lucifer, the Morningstar and Lightbringer, who lit the Heavens and placed the planetary bodies in their paths-- and I, Michael, the Demiurgos, Key of Creation and Destruction, the door to all things here and beyond-- are exempt in this matter."

"Brother, I do not understand--" Amenadiel pleaded, only to be cut off.

"Through His study of the hearts of the Host, Father has already learned of your deceptions, your interference in the life and death of the mortal known as Malcolm Graham, your slander of our brother to those of lesser knowledge and power within the Host, the laying of hands on our brother out of malice, and the manipulation of mortal minds out of malice. As such, your domain is stripped."

Amenadiel crashed to his knees, immediately weak, dry-heaving against the horror as he felt time itself slip away from him. His awareness of the Host evaporated. He could not even hear the silence, could not seek them out in any way, positive or negative.

"Here, you will stay. Here, you will learn from humanity. Learn the difference between Good and Evil. Learn how to love for the sake of love, not merely born out of command. Love as the mortals do, with no more power than they possess. If you should die, you will be reborn in the Silver City, and cast back unto the Earth until your lesson is complete. Your punishment is great, but so were your wrongdoings."

Amenadiel trembled as Michael's voice faded into silence. He stared at the floor, too shocked to even weep for what he had suddenly lost. After a minute, he suddenly looked up, desperate for answers. For anything. Michael merely stared down at him, expression blank, eyes cold.

"I only ever did as He asked."

Michael's head slowly tilted to the side. " _Who_ asked? For truly I say to you, Father has not uttered a single command since Lucifer was struck down. Nothing has been asked of you, nothing has been said to you."

Breath stuttering, Amenadiel could do nothing but kneel on the ground. Father had receded after the Fall, yes, that was well-known! But surely, it had been his duty--! Surely, the ideas had been implanted by their Father! He had not asked with _words_ , but He had made it known... Hadn't He?

"Goodbye, Amenadiel. We will see each other again."

Kneeling on the floor, he stared into the carpet as the shock slowly wore off and reality began to set in. _Fallen._

And so, Amenadiel wept, longing for anything, even pain. Instead, he felt only numbness from the hole in his heart left by the Host. And Michael was gone.

So quickly, everything was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters will not often come as fast as this one. But this was written immediately after i finished chapter 2, so i'll go ahead and post it. A bonus for you!
> 
> My irl work is tiring and i dont often have the motivation and energy to write, so updates will be sporadic, and there's no guarantee that i wont suddenly disappear into the ether for months at a time. Please be patient with me! 
> 
> I also thank u guys for your lovely comments, and i hope you enjoy this chapter of amenadiel getting spanked for his nonsense. i love him, but hes a fool and he has much to learn. 
> 
> I have the backstory of the fall all mentally logged. The issue is how to write a sort-of plot to move forward in time. Ive never liked flashbacks in fic, and ive never liked non-linear stories. So i want to exclusively move forward in time.
> 
> The plot of this story is also an issue for me, since as of now, it doesnt have one! I genuinely only wanted to story dealing with family and healing and tough love, not with any big Bad Guy to defeat or any case to solve. I love casefic, but im absolutely dogshit at making a case. Im not very good at planning, ahaha!
> 
> But while this fic may be slow and plodding, and not have a lot of meat and potatoes when it comes to a Plot, some interesting things are happening in heaven! I hope youll all enjoy it. 
> 
> Also, if you have any suggestions on where to go, or commentary/questions of the celestial workings that i may or may not lay out in the future, please comment them! I love discussions on that sort of thing. Anyways, thanks for reading
> 
> See you in the next one


	4. Chapter 4

With not much else to do, Chloe had called in the scene and been placed on suspension while everything was investigated. She was confident that everything would be quickly handled, but Dan's fate was a little less certain. He'd been cruel to her-- purposefully gaslighting her, and actively contributing to her loss of credibility within the department, but she didn't want him ruined for it. He'd done everything wrong, but it had been out of fear for both her and their daughter. She suspected that once Malcolm had been declared braindead, he had wanted nothing more than for the entire affair to be swept under the rug so that they could go on with their lives. But Chloe simply wouldn't let the case die.

And in the end, she'd been dead to rights. She had known that Malcolm was dirty. Had known that _something_ wasn't right. If there was anything good to take away from this entire shitstorm, it was that. From the beginning, she'd been right.

Now that Malcolm was dead, and now that it was out within the department that she'd been right, her career could finally get back on track, and she wouldn't have to deal with any asshole coworkers stubbornly sticking up for the creep out of either misguided and blind loyalty to the uniform, or because they were just as dirty.

And once Dan's investigation was finished, and he was hopefully let go with a demotion and a slap on the wrist, Trixie could have a real father again. After being let go, she had requested to see him. Everything had happened so quickly that he was still in holding. Gossip worked fast, and the fear and relief as he hugged their daughter together with Chloe was _very_ real.

Their relationship was dead. He'd confessed that it had been Malcolm who'd driven the last wedge between them during their attempt to give it another shot, and while that was sort of reassuring, it was ultimately moot. The truth of Dan's involvement with Palmetto, his actions against her and her career, and his distance at the end of their marriage and into their separation, from both her and their daughter... It was all too much, and any chance they might have had was well and truly shot dead on arrival.

They would stick together for Trixie, and the divorce would be amicable. Custody would be joint, of course, provided that Dan make it out of the system without jail time. But even if Chloe had to take primary custody, she wouldn't keep Trixie away from her father. If they had to speak into a phone with glass in between them, then so be it.

As Chloe ruminated on all that had happened, her daughter finally asleep with her in Chloe's bed while she herself sat up with the lamp on and a glass of wine-- she wondered about Lucifer. He'd been shot. She had _seen_ it, and it was now proven that her eyes didn't lie. The entire Palmetto debacle had assured her like nothing else would.

There'd been blood. She had smelled it. Had seen Lucifer fall to the ground, the red soles of those Louboutins facing out and limp--

Chloe shook herself, squeezing her eyes against the image. It would be just the garnish her future nightmares needed. She didn't need it while she was still awake. Refocusing, she reassessed everything weird she had witnessed around Lucifer.

That first night with Jimmy Barnes, being shot over and over. That one was fuzzy, which was understandable considering her tenuous grip on consciousness at the time. But Jimmy's reaction in the psych-ward was very much crystal clear. And it was disturbingly par for the course when it came to criminals left in Lucifer's zeroed-in gaze.

And what _was_ that eye-thing anyways? She'd tried to puzzle it out multiple times and had come up with nothing over and over, and had to simply write it off as mentalist nonsense based off of cold-reading and a deadly intuition, topped with good acting, with the sort of script and persona that would get under the skin of any Christian as the cherry on top.

She still had nothing for that. Though to be honest, she had nothing for pretty much all of Lucifer's truly weird feats. He was far stronger than he should be considering his size, which was saying something considering the tone of his body. He had completely disappeared and popped up in a place impossible to get to in a blink more than once, and in full view of her and multiple other witnesses. There was the aforementioned insanity thing he pulled on criminals, completely breaking multiple people when left alone with him for a very brief period of time. Getting injured and then showing up the next day with nothing more to say on it and no visible issues. Whatever had happened tonight, of course... 

But she had shot him herself, and while she had initially taken it to mean that he was nothing more than a man with issues the size of the Titanic and a set of highly specific skills only slightly smaller, she was now reviewing that as premature. It was a thigh shot, and not a graze. It could have crippled him, and at the very least, would be a painful heal that would have him limping for ages and complaining for three times as long. But he had shown up the next day with not a word to say on the matter and the same swagger to his step as all the days she'd known him. In fact, the only lasting injury she'd seen him with had been the wicked black eye that had been that "brotherly tiff" of his. Even _that_ healed quicker than it should.

Which, sitting in her bed with her daughter that Lucifer had helped to save, getting himself shot (?) for, then blasting out Malcolm's knee and giving her a chance to shoot the man, saving her daughter... Honestly, it was fucked up. Maybe it was the wine, but she was tempted to give that Amena-guy a piece of her mind about punching out nice, handsome men like Lucifer for what was assuredly petty nonsense... What kind of family did Lucifer _have?_ Between getting in fistfights with his brother, those scars on his back that he might have gotten from his father... Christ. It wasn't hard to understand why the guy had issues.

Catching her own thoughts, she gave her empty wineglass a baleful eye and carefully set it on her end-table. Her mind was spiraling down the endless Lucifer's Weirdness rabbit hole again, and no answers were going to magically jump out at her. They hadn't before and they definitely _wouldn't_ when it was 1AM and she was tipsy on cheap wine.

As she moved downward and snuggled up to her daughter, Chloe took a last moment to quietly thank Lucifer for following behind her against her wishes. However he'd done it, her daughter was alive through his help.

He was delusional, arrogant, an alleged junkie and an alcoholic, and had more issues than any man she'd ever met, all carefully papered up in a veneer money and class and sex. But whatever those issues, whatever the sass he spit at her or the innuendo he used... He had helped her save Trixie, had risked his life to do it.

They were partners. And she was _damn_ well going to figure him out if it was the last thing she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments! I dont reply to all of them but i do read them. This chapter is short and i apologize for that, but i think its a good check in with chloe after the shitshow of the s1 finale. Next up is lucifer's check in, i believe. Thanks for reading guys, see ya next time


	5. Chapter 5

As Lucifer moved through his penthouse, he went through the usual motions. He got himself a drink, carried it to the bathroom, and set it down so he could meticulously strip. Taking off his suit, the glamour it had been under faded until it was again tacky with his own blood, utterly ruined. He folded it up anyways and set it to the side so as to be burned.

He wiped off his eyeliner and mascara without looking in the mirror. Moved back to the bar to grab another drink and then moved back to the bathroom. Took off his ring, and cleaned it with the toothbrush he had set aside for his jewelry. Then, he moved into the shower stall. He didn't feel like taking a full bath tonight.

He meticulously washed his hair, then took a moment to assess the varied soaps lined up neatly on their marble alcove. Carefully selecting the soap, he breathed in the scent of it as if it could cleanse his very lungs. Then, he took his soft sponge and ground it against his skin to scrub himself in every nook and cranny.

Until he could no longer feel the disgusting texture of Malcolm's deranged hatred and malice, sliding against his skin like sludge.

Until he could no longer smell the fear and sweat and of the Detective and the Child, lingering in his pores and clogging his sinuses.

He jammed the knobs all the way to cold and stood under the water and pretended it was rain. The sudden brisk bore him up and refreshed him. Then, he moved out of the stall and toweled off. He bent down and wiped up the water that he had tracked out, folded the towel and set it in hamper he used for normal washing, not dry cleaning.

Here, he broke his routine. He moved back to the vanity and stood in front of the mirror. There was a glow about him that he had never actually seen with his own eyes. He had been told of it, had felt it in the vague sense of others' reactions to him. But mirrors hadn't yet been invented at the time that he had still been a part of Heaven.

The most beautiful, they called him. Utterly captivating, even by angelic standards. As he had moved through the Silver City, they had cried out in song at his passing. They had fallen to their knees at the sight of him, heads bowed low and wings stretched across the ground in front of them. Cloaked in Light and bathed in the colors of the nebulae, wings throwing off bloody rainbows at every shift of ever opalescent feather.

Now, looking at that full glow for the first time, he could see it. He could practically get lost in his own eyes. His hair was a halo around his head, curling in ever-so-gentle waves. Without the eyeliner to give an edge to his appearance, with no gel slicking his hair back, he looked wild and free and natural. His beard was a little fuller, a little longer than usual, and it only softened his face further. His skin was rosy and youthful, as if years had been removed from it, even though that was ridiculous because he was immortal and hadn't been physically aged a day from when he was first Created.

It was all a bloody lie and he'd never asked for any of it. The only reason he looked so dreadfully beautiful was the return of his domain and his full celestial might. Alone in his own bathroom, in the silence of his penthouse, he stared into his own reflection and felt the burn of bitter anger bubble up his throat. He wanted to gag on it, he was so infuriated.

Except that he had. He had asked for it. In the moment of life and death, he would have paid any price, taken any debt, so long as the Detective and the Child lived. And he had paid, oh he had paid.

With an indignant sniff, he straightened his posture even further and slicked his hair back out of his face. Then, he summoned up his domain. Those same nebulae, moving against his skin, singing the songs of new and old stars. The blackness of space petaled over his limbs, complimenting the inky darkness of his hair and beard.

Unfolding his wings from the subspace they resided in, in mortal company, he took himself in fully, in the complete and utterly devastating glory of how he had been Created in the Beginning. His feathers were unmatched. They reflected and refracted their own Light, as if they too were caught up in their own beauty. He could not unfurl in the bathroom, there just wasn't enough space, but seeing them there-- resting against his back as if nothing had changed. As if he was still that same angel, that same Lightbringer. Still that same damned fool singing and crying out at how glorious their Father was, how for creating him and his siblings-- for giving them life and purpose and power and joy and love.

Nothing was the same. It would never be the same. And while he may be under that thumb again, he would never sing those praises again. He would never move down those Silver City corridors, would never fly through those celestial skies with his first brothers, the other Archangels, and smile winningly at those poor angels so taken by the sight of him, befuddling them even further.

Bloody hell. Wearing his domain was making him dreadfully maudlin. The drama of his own thoughts was a little much, even for him. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed his tumbler, took a careful sip, and then moved back out into the penthouse proper.

Seating himself down at the piano bench, he puffed his feathers and resettled his wings. It was a dreadful annoyance, but he hadn't had a domain in eons, and wings had been lopped off a few years ago. Perhaps the re-additions were what was scrambling him so badly? No matter, he would just reacquaint himself with his power and his... limbs, and then be right as rain. A couple of songs should do the trick.

As he picked out the opening keys, he absently tested each piece of armor with his mind, feeling flex and give of it against his skin. Shuffled his feathers. Twitched his wings every which way. As the song grew, he carefully increased the pressure of his fingers. Bit by bit, he moved up the scale until the slightest tap was shattering the ivory. Without pausing, he mentally locked onto the break and glued the molecules back together. He tapped a pedal and snapped it off, then jammed it back on without looking or touching, no hesitation needed.

At the crest of the musical piece, he unfurled his wings as much as he could in the enclosed space, and slammed his hands down. With an incredible bang, the piano shattered as a whole. Strings snapped, wood splintered, keys went flying. A dramatic measure of silence only added to the song as the piano folded back together unblemished beneath Lucifer's waiting hands.

Into the night, he played. Hours slid by as the stars brightened, waxing and waning under the power of Lucifer's songs. As he slowly mixed in his own voice, the galaxies seemed to sigh in their motions, in their endless turning and swirling through the cosmos.

It was only when the sun began to fully crest over the horizon that Lucifer finally rose off the piano bench, the new silence seeming unbearably loud for a long, ringing moment.

Moving over to the windows, he watched the interplay of shadow of light in the city skyline, with the sun bleeding overhead. It seemed to smile at him in the way that he always imagined that the stars could. It was a little warmer, a little brighter. At least someone was happy about it all, Lucifer thought to himself. He blew it a kiss, felt it brighten a tiny bit more. Today was going to be a hot one in LA.

Moving back inside, he folded up his domain into his heart, stuffed his wings back into the planes between reality.

Falling forward with a puff, he snuggled up under his massive down-stuffed duvet, burying himself in the luxurious fluff.

He may have a domain. He may have new wings. He may be under dear old Dad's thumb once more. But Lucifer had escaped Hell time and time again. No lock existed that could hold him. No runes could summon him. No rules were unbreakable to him.

He would be free again.

If not, well. He'd Fallen once. He could do it again. How hard could it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been a bit, my dudes. i struggled hard with this chapter. lucifer is a study in contradictions. he holds millennia old grudges against his family, but when maze tries to get him killed-- he says "of course im over it, what do you think i am, human???" hes strange. i was unsure if he would be more tore up over his new situation or just accept it and move onto Diabolical Inept Planning. i decided to go with the second one, if only because angst tires me out very quickly. i can only write a little bit before i start getting annoyed with it. im an optimistic person, myself, so trying to figure out the correct amount of Wallowing(tm) for lucifer is difficult for me. 
> 
> regardless, i hope i did it decently. let me know your thoughts and feelings in the comments??? thanks for reading guys.

**Author's Note:**

> oh fuck dude, we Do it


End file.
